The Dead Yard
“Green water. A vesper of sound on the cadence of the bog. Rose petals, seraphim, Levantine cotton sheets. The ceiling, a facsimile of a busy part of the Sistine.
I slip outside.
Fog rolling in lazy tongues, the dead sound of a buoy bell, and the ocean hidden, silent, pretending to be benign.
I rub my face and look at the sky.
It unnerves me.
There’s an ashen silver aftertaste on the horizon as if the morning has come reluctantly out of the east, hungover, snarled in a slabbe...r of ugly clouds. There’s hardly any sun. Only a smudge behind the clouds over Cape Ann. Chilly, ponderable, empty of life and color. A cicatrice covering old wounds.
Something bad is going to happen today.
Aye.
I lean on the balcony rail. My hand comes up coated with dew.
A night of no moon and no dreams.MoreLess
I slip outside.
Fog rolling in lazy tongues, the dead sound of a buoy bell, and the ocean hidden, silent, pretending to be benign.
I rub my face and look at the sky.
It unnerves me.
There’s an ashen silver aftertaste on the horizon as if the morning has come reluctantly out of the east, hungover, snarled in a slabbe...r of ugly clouds. There’s hardly any sun. Only a smudge behind the clouds over Cape Ann. Chilly, ponderable, empty of life and color. A cicatrice covering old wounds.
Something bad is going to happen today.
Aye.
I lean on the balcony rail. My hand comes up coated with dew.
A night of no moon and no dreams.MoreLess
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